


The Curse of Brocket Hall

by Daphne_Fredriksen, LadyJaneGrey92



Category: Victoria (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gothic, One True Pairing, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Soulmates, Supernatural Elements, True Mates, Werewolf, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:42:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27174017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daphne_Fredriksen/pseuds/Daphne_Fredriksen, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyJaneGrey92/pseuds/LadyJaneGrey92
Summary: Lord M is planning the unthinkable--to host an event at Brocket Hall.  A harvest supper, to be exact.  One that will include frivolities that he hopes will entertain and enchant his young and beautiful queen, Victoria, for whom he would pull down the moon and stars and lay them at her feet if only he could...Meanwhile, dark forces are at work to plot his downfall.  Will their evil plan succeed in removing the Prime Minister from power? And if Melbourne goes, what will happen to the young and vulnerable queen?  Without him by her side, changes will be inevitable...
Relationships: William Lamb 2nd Viscount Melbourne & Victoria of the United Kingdom (1819-1901), William Lamb 2nd Viscount Melbourne/Victoria of the United Kingdom (1819-1901)
Comments: 60
Kudos: 35





	1. By the Light of the Autumn Moon

**Author's Note:**

> This is a dark Vicbourne story, written with a Halloween feel, and is co-authored with the fabulous Daphne_Fredriksen!  
> We have had so much fun planning and writing this! I hope you all enjoy it!

**Chapter 1—By the Light of the Autumn Moon**

William Lamb, Viscount Lord Melbourne, second of that name, crunched his way through the leaves of his favorite little wood on the grounds of Brocket Hall and paused, taking a deep, fortifying breath. There was something special about autumn air. Since he was a boy he’d always thought it smelled of crisp, honey sweet apples and sharp pine, as well as the softer scents of hay and pumpkin. It was as if the whole world, relieved at last from the sweltering heat of summer, sighed in relief and lay back to reflect with satisfaction on another job well done—another harvest gathered. It was the sunset of all seasons, where the world painted itself in the hues of evening. The deep breath before the icy plunge into winter. It was a time of festivals and harvest suppers, a time of merriment and relaxation.

And that was just what he planned to give.

“A harvest supper, William? You?” Emma had said to him, shock, underpinned with suspicion lighting her eyes as she regarded him with amusement. “But you never entertain! And at Brocket Hall, no less!”

He had shrugged a shoulder and given her a rueful smile. “Well. Then I suppose the gesture is overdue.”

“Indeed,” her eyes had narrowed at him. “And uh…would the Queen be invited, perchance?”

“Oh. Well, I’d have to double-check my guest list, Emma, but I’m fairly certain I’ve included her. If she is so inclined to attend.”

She had shaken her head at him. “My God. You really are smitten aren’t you?”

“Smitten, Emma? I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He’d said with affected innocence.

“I’m sure you do. Oh, William. Whatever will you do? I love to see you this way and it pains me to remind you but—”

“Then don’t,” he’d said, surprising himself, and smiled to take away the sting of his rudeness. “I can assure you, whatever you feel called upon to remind me I am already well aware of.”

“I don’t want either of you to get hurt,” she had said at last.

“Well. As to the one of us, I daresay it will not be lasting. And as to the other, when it comes it shall be well-deserved.”

“You underestimate her. And do not give yourself enough consideration.”

“Be that as it may--”

“--I shall not say another word. Except that I wish you both well, and that you may always be assured of my support.”

He sighed, gazing overhead at the circling rooks. Emma had been right, of course. And he was a fool. But his little queen had been so upset over the Flora Hastings affair that she deserved some cheering up. And if it meant that he would have to open his home to invasion by the court in order to provide it, he would. And so he’d arranged it all. A great harvest supper, as was traditional, along with a costume ball to follow, and various other traditional amusements as well. And the evening’s celebrations would conclude with the lighting of a great bonfire in the garden, at which point the masked revelers would remove their masks and reveal their identities.

As if anyone didn’t know who was who, he chuckled. But it seemed as good a signal as any to send everyone home again.

And though he still had a few weeks left to prepare, Brocket Hall’s available guest chambers were already being aired and readied for any distinguished guests who wished to stay the night and avoid a long drive back to London.

He dared not anticipate any _particular_ guest who might stay.

He stopped his trudging beneath his favorite tree and sighed.

Young. Artless. Beautiful. And so very lovely.

He huffed a laugh. Yes, he supposed he was smitten. He did not know how he could be otherwise. And Emma was right, of course. This wouldn’t end well for him. But he supposed maybe it was the fact that he’d entered into his own autumn years that prompted his foolishness. When the time came to give her up, he would do it with as good a grace as could be managed. But he hoped he could be forgiven for hoping with all his heart that such a day was not forthcoming for a long while.

* * *

Far away from Brocket Hall’s sleepy autumn majesty, the Duke of Cumberland and King of Hanover (formerly the Duke of Cumberland) paced up and down in his Palace.

He was an unhappy king, having desired... well, having desired Hanover, yes! - but not without gaining the sister-realm of Great Britain. In his mind, and what passed for his iron-hard heart, he felt he was owed the dual throne that had been his brothers’, his father’s, his grandfather’s, and his great-grandfather’s.

But no! He had been cheated of his birthright, by a feckless brother who managed to have a French mistress and then a Coburg breeding-cow who produced the daughter that now was the British Queen!

And who was she, but a mere slip of a girl of eighteen -- unwise, unworldly, besotted and spoiled? Worse, a girl of wild temper, of impulsivity, a rashness that was like... madness. Like the madness of her grandfather.

Wiser minds should have prevailed.

Ah, but he cherished a hope that wiser minds would prevail, in time. The girl was rash, foolish, and she would falter. If King Ernest Augustus never quite won over his sister-in-law, silly Victoire, to his way of thinking, he at least had the understanding of Sir John Conroy, who held sway over her. He had other contacts, too, still in England – Tories who would watch and spy, who built and strengthened a subtle network of the loyal.

The girl would fail! She would do something brash, or have a fit, or make a fool of herself, and then – a proper regency would commence and he would return to London triumphantly, restoring the twin thrones!

But the most recent missives, though containing plenty of his niece’s giddiness, contained nothing suggesting the British were tiring of this child’s play. If anything, the fools seemed rather adoring of their fresh young queen, her girlish charm and natural ways.

And so, the King of Hanover stormed into the salon, once a cheerful place, but now its rococo airiness turned to grotesqueries, its nymphs and centaurs blackened by time and neglect.

“Blast it!” he said, waving a letter from one of his confederates in London. “That niece of mine lords it over the British, her popularity, and her, her... relations with that man, that Melbourne.”

The Queen of Hanover had been sitting at her needlework, embroidering a sphinx on a pillow. But she got up, went to her husband, chucked him encouragingly under the chin and placed a kiss on his bald head.

”Oh, how very hard it is for you, _mein Mann_. You worry yourself. She is a mere child -- what does she know of the world – or of love?”

“She treats him, that traitorous Whig, as if he were her bridegroom!” He rustled the letter with a noisy flourish.

A bridegroom?” The Queen let out a dreadful, cackling chuckle. “Then we will send this ‘bridegroom’ _ein_ _Gift.” *_

* * *

Queen Fredricka, witch and murderess, stood on the blasted heath, the vicious winds tearing her straw-like hair and dark cloak. She stood in a dim circle of firelight, a few ill-assorted men standing on the edge between the light of the flames and the utter darkness. A foul-smelling cauldron was burning, and a close observer would have seen parts of a disembodied animal bobbing evilly within it. The head of a wolf sat perched on the rim, as if supervising the malevolence.

The witch-queen poured a bowl of dark reddish liquid into the cauldron. The pot hissed, and she pulled some sort of cloth out of a basket. Then she droned her wicked chant:

_“Spirits of vengeance, blood and malice,_  
_Bring confusion to her palace,_  
_Spirits of wood, of fen, of heath,_  
_This my spell, place them beneath._

_Though the wolf-familiar died,_  
_It lives again as a werewolf grim,_  
_So mote this lower England’s pride,_  
_When donned by he whose gown this trims._

_Dip I the robe in the steaming gore,_  
_So to fix the curse on Melbourne,_

_Spirits of malice, vengeance, and blood,_  
_Let him dread moon-shining weather,_  
_Spirits of fen, of heath, and wood,_  
_Fix the wolfskin’s curse forever!”_

She dropped the cloth into the boiling cauldron, and it sank with a shrieking sound – only to arise eerily from the nasty bouillon, shining and magnificent! It was rich and gorgeous and gave off a silvery glow as if it were made of moonbeams.

Then whoosh! - the witch wrapped the garment in a parcel, and walked to the edge of the firelight. There, trembling for dear life, was a poor lowly Cockney. He took the package in his shaking hands.

The King of Hanover stepped forward. “Well, what are you waiting for? The ship that takes you back to England takes our gift to Hertfordshire. Make haste! Or I’ll have my wife use you in her next brew!”

The humble man took to his feet, running as if Baphomet were upon his very heels.

* * *

The brisk days, with their amber-honey light and changing leaves, filled Lord M with joy... but at night when the heavy clouds obscured the sky and mists gathered in the glens and dales, he was glad for his port and his brandy, and for the crackling oaken fire.

In truth, it was a pleasant sort of chill – not the harshness of upcoming winter, but simply a contrast that made one feel and enjoy the mutability of seasons - both Nature’s and Man’s.

And tonight, Baines had brought him a parcel.

“From an admirer at Court” it had said. William was puzzled, but in his younger days he’d often been a target of admiring eyes, and received his share of (undoubtedly inappropriate, but nevertheless pleasing) presents.

Ahh, but this! It was a dressing gown (he had a great love for the comfort of dressing gowns), but this... this was fit for a king!

It was heavy velvet in a deep, mossy green (one of his favorite colors) and it had some sort of design worked in it in silver threads of varying thicknesses, so that it almost twinkled. He held it up to the window, and the moon, in her waxing gibbous phase, picked out a pattern of leaves and vines.

The collar and cuffs of the robe were wide, and of a dense dark grey fur. The same or similar fur had been made into a deep, plush felt that lined the inside of the robe.

Such a rich gift! How had he, a man of modest talents and kind thoughts but few ambitions, ever deserved to gain so marvelous a gift? He looked again at the packet, and its sparse writing. He didn’t recognize the hand, but it could have been a clerk’s or a servant’s.

But who could have sent it? Not Harriet, surely. Lord Alfred had admirable taste in clothing, but as a man he surely could not be accounted an admirer! Possibly Emma had sent it, though he doubted that after years of friendship she would have used so coy an address.

A thrill ran through him. It was entirely too proud of him, but it entered his mind that it might be the Queen herself. Their mutual friendship, the joy of his life, was well-enough known in court circles that wisdom suggested using such a discreet greeting. Though such a rare gift was most unwise. Much too fine and intimate a gift. And yet, Victoria was always so kind toward him, so generous, as she always was with those she favored. She would not stop to think of propriety.

He could not wait to put it on!

Melbourne lay it across his favorite chair while he neatly folded his old paisley robe, and shook the new one to take out any wrinkles. Truly, it was a marvelous garment. He touched the soft grey trimmings of cuff and collar, then placed his hand on the lining, looking forward to luxuriating in the fur-felted inside. He did so hate to be cold, after all.

He whisked it on him, and settled back in his cozy old wingback chair that he placed near the fireplace, taking in a large slug of brandy.

The heavy clouds had been scudding across the sky all evening, and from the comfort of his chair, Melbourne enjoyed watching them move like a shadow-puppet show. He enjoyed the wind whining fretfully over the chimneys of sturdy Brocket Hall, where they could never come inside.

And now, the clouds drew back, like a woman drawing back a drape, and the gibbous moon shone like a pearl. God, it would be magnificent when she was at full-moon!

Suddenly, a dreadful shiver ran through his body. He pulled the robe tighter, to warm himself, then immediately loosened it, feeling it strangling him.

He looked down, at his hands, then his body, in wonderment. Surely his mind, his eyes were playing tricks! For his body seemed to be swelling, growing, not dropsically, but firmly, with growing muscle and lengthening frame. It was the brandy, surely! But why then did his feet in their leather slippers seem hairier, also his hands... his palms!

Terror seized him, and he gasped. But his gasp sounded to him like the half-whine, half-howl that comes from a dog that begins to feel pain. Horrified, he glanced around, half-wanting and half-fearing to call Baines. Then he caught his face in the mirror above the mantel... dark, it was all dark as hades... save for his eyes -- green, yes; of his shape, yes - but shimmering with a weird glow, like the lights of swamps. His pupils changed, turning into slits...

A sudden lull in the wind startled him. Nervously, he looked around.

His feet and hands were once again his own. Quickly he returned to the mirror, and breathed a sigh of relief. His eyes were his own, too. Why, he was himself again!

Nothing had happened to him. He felt his muscles, and they were as they had always been. Whatever had caused the delusion of hairiness on his limbs – well, that vanished too.

He stood up shakily, looking full into the mirror and saw only his own face, perhaps paler than usual, but his own. He paused, taking a deep breath, and laughing at himself. It was only the wind... the cloudy night... an old man’s fancies of bogeys on an Autumn night.

And this, he thought, looking down at his snifter. The brandy. What an old fool he was! He tossed the remains of the drink into the fire, then stoppered the decanter, and took it to its cabinet.

“I think it’s time to say good night to you, old friend!” he said to the bottle, and locked it up tight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * "Ein Gift" is a play on words. In German, "Gift" means "poison"


	2. Just Another Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The following morning, Lord M wakes as if from a nightmare and sets about his business in London. However...

**Chapter 2—Just Another Day**

William Lamb woke the next morning in his bedroom, of all places, feeling rather marvelous. He sat up and looked around himself, not at all sure how and when he’d mounted the stairs the night before. His habit of late had been to sleep in his library, but, given the state of relaxation and good health he felt at the moment having passed the night in his bedroom, he admitted to himself he might need to revise that policy after all.

His occupancy had not gone unnoticed, so it seemed. Baines had lit his fire, which now burned merrily in the hearth, beside which sat his morning coffee in a full silver service, suffusing his room with its stimulating aroma. It was a sunny morning, and his room was bathed in golden light as the birds chirped merrily outside his window. Yes, today was a good day to be alive.

He threw back his bed covers with a spryness that somewhat surprised him, and climbed from his bed with relative ease and little stiffness of limb. He stretched luxuriously, and found his body felt remarkably well. Strong even.

He looked at his bed in astonishment. He must never underestimate a good night’s sleep in a proper bed again. He felt ten years younger. Not even the morning’s biting chill seemed to affect him.

He went first to his washbasin and scrubbed his face and hands. Even the cool water felt uncommonly refreshing. Drying himself, he crossed the room to sample his butler’s excellent coffee. As he did so, his eyes fell upon an unaccustomed sight.

His new dressing gown. The one that had been given to him anonymously by a member of the court the evening before. He sat in his wing-back chair, sipping thoughtfully, gazing at it, remembering.

He’d slipped it on, when suddenly…

Even in the calm, reasonable light of day, the memory of his hallucination the evening before unsettled him and gave him a shudder. The garment was every bit as beautiful as it was when it had arrived--its soft, furry trim was inviting and cozy, the mossy green velvet was beautiful, and silver tracing of its embroidery exquisite.

Why, then, had it provoked such a hideous vision?

He shook off the impression, scoffing at himself. He really was reaching his dotage. As if a dressing gown could give him such lurid hallucinations! Surely it was the brandy, perhaps coupled with fatigue. Or he could have dreamed the whole of it.

Yes, surely, it must have been a dream. A fancy. Nothing more.

But he hadn’t dreamed the gown. It was still here.

Frowning, he set down his coffee and stood. It was time he dressed and readied himself for his journey into town. His business was such that he would probably need to stay at Dover House for the rest of the week, to save himself the long drive back and forth.

He made his way to his wardrobe to select his attire. Opening its door, he glanced at himself in the mirror, and did a double-take, gazing at himself critically.

Was his vision failing him or did he look—younger? Not astonishingly so, but—he turned his head from left to right—the lines of his face seemed less deeply carved, his cheeks softer, and the pallor of his skin brighter somehow. There was more color in his lips—even his hair was darker! He half smiled, and huffed a laugh.

By Jove. He really should sleep every night henceforth in his own bed!

His mind flew to Victoria, and his smile deepened. Would she notice? Would she remark upon the fact that he looked younger?

He quickly dispelled such foolishness, running a hand along his jaw, feeling the rasp of his beard. He’d definitely need a wash and a shave before calling on her today.

He selected for himself fawn breeches, a burgundy waistcoat and cravat, a fresh shirt, and his coffee-colored frock coat with the black velvet collar on it and rang for Baines.

His brass tub was duly brought in, set before the fire, and filled with steaming pitchers of hot water. Once it had been filled to his liking and the servants had left, he began readying himself for a nice, relaxing bath. During the course of his necessary preparations, however, he found himself staring down at his own body in abject shock.

It was _bigger_.

Far bigger than it had ever been before.

He blinked once. Twice. 

While nature had already been undoubtedly generous to him in the gentleman’s department, and he’d never had cause to complain (nor had any of his former female companions, thankfully), he found himself at a complete loss to explain just what in blazes amounted to the fact that somehow, during the night, he had— _grown_. Inexplicably. It wasn’t standing at the moment, but there was still no getting around the fact that it was noticeably larger both in girth and length.

He shook his head in disbelief, and for the first time, an unsettled feeling began to creep over him.

“Dear God,” he muttered to himself. “What has happened to me?”

* * *

Two hours later, he was bathed, freshly shaved, dressed, breakfasted and on his way to his front doorstep, giving last minute instructions to Baines. His faithful manservant was to set things in motion here, and then follow him to London later. He stepped out on his porch to board his waiting carriage…and instantly the team of four began neighing and stamping in distress.

“Whoa!” his driver said, pulling on the reins. “Whoa there!”

“Is there a problem?” Melbourne looked around himself. Something had spooked his horses.

“I don’t know, My Lord!” His driver called, struggling to keep them steady. “They were fine but a moment ago. Best get aboard, Sir. Perhaps they’re restless to begin the journey.”

As William drew closer, the horses began rearing.

“Whoa! Steady on, there!” His driver looked at him, startled. “I don’t understand it, My Lord! Best get aboard quick!”

He climbed into his carriage, and almost as soon as his door closed, they were off at a brisk canter down his drive.

 _Well,_ he thought to himself. _Perhaps I’ll get there sooner, at least._

But dear God, he’d never noticed before how infernally the animals stunk! In fact his entire carriage reeked of sweat and horse, and even the stale sweat of man. It was almost enough to make him lose his breakfast.

Fortunately though, the jolting and clopping and rattling of his carriage, along with the green of the countryside passing out of his window soon lulled him to sleep. And the next thing he knew, he had arrived in town.

* * *

The House was a tedious business, but mercifully short-lived, as his new position as the Queen’s Personal Secretary afforded him the chance of early escape. He stepped out into the afternoon with gratitude, gulping in great, fortifying lungfuls of fresh air. The air inside was thick with the acrid stench of so many men crammed into one place, enough to make him want to gag. How had he never noticed before? Even in the open, the scents of horses and men, of leather and grass and trees, and the fetid waste of the gutter seemed overwhelming. Thoughtfully, he made his way to the curb where his footman handed him into his carriage—again with the horses growing restless as he approached.

He frowned, rubbing a finger over his brow as they set off. What kind of infirmity had beset him? He had never experienced the like before. His stomach, in truth, seemed sound enough. Why then did everything stink so abominably? Fervently he hoped whatever it was would soon pass and return him to normal.

Presently his carriage drew up at the steps of the Palace and he sighed, allowing himself a moment of blissful anticipation at seeing Her Majesty. At last. A smile came to his lips as he imagined the way her eyes would light up to see him--yes. Such moments were worth any amount of discomfort. He would endure any hardship at all to be so greeted by her at the end of it. She always made everything more than worthwhile.

He shifted in his seat uncomfortably. Damn and blast, whatever was affecting his manhood today was positively distracting. Just the _thought_ of seeing Victoria had him—stirring. He groaned in mortification. Now was not the time for such a problem! He forced his thoughts back to the House, anything he could think of to quell it. 

Soon though, his footman opened his door and he alighted, absently sauntering up the steps two at a time, not even feeling winded.

Once ushered inside, the sweet scent accosted his nostrils. Oh, what was that heavenly smell? It was…like sunshine, and something more ethereal, delicate and effervescent, traced through with notes of honeysuckle and verbena. He breathed it in, and for the first time since he had awakened this morning did not curse his newly sensitive nose. It was positively glorious. And without knowing how he knew, he recognized the scent.

 _Woman_.

Elusive and mysterious, it took hold of him and wouldn’t let go. As he walked, the peculiar problem in his breeches grew progressively worse, but somehow now instead of mortifying him, it made him feel powerful. Every room he passed, the scent became more pronounced, every rustle of skirts he was hyper-aware of, his mouth practically watering. It was no secret that Melbourne had always loved women—there was no denying they made a tedious life so much more decorative and--pleasurable. Worth living and striving for--to come home and have one all to himself, warming his bed and his body with her soft curves, and a smile on her rosy lips, arms outstretched, yearning for him--

“William!”

He stopped in his tracks, closing his eyes briefly and inhaling strongly as Emma Portman approached him in a whisper of silk that he could almost feel against his skin. How had he never noticed before how gloriously she smelled? He turned to her with a smile.

“Good day, Emma! What can I do for you?”

She paused a moment and blinked at him, wide-eyed.

“Are you quite all right today, William?” She asked a little breathlessly.

“I am, Emma, I am,” he said, taking a step closer to her and breathing her in. Dear God, but she smelled beautiful! Laced throughout her female fragrance was something all her own...a scent both crisp and sweet, like peaches. His eyes focused on the pale column of her neck, the graceful arc of her shoulders. “I feel quite remarkably well. How about you?”

“I am well,” she said, peering at him closely. “You seem…”

“How do I seem?”

“Different somehow.”

“Do I? How so?”

“I cannot say for sure,” she finished softly, dropping her eyes with uncharacteristic shyness. 

The color was rising in her cheeks now and her scent had shifted—subtly but noticeably deepening, becoming more sugary. And he knew, again without knowing how he knew, exactly what the change meant.

 _Arousal_.

His old friend desired him! The knowledge both shocked and excited him.

“Well,” he said softly, teasing. “It must be the sight of you.”

“I rather doubt that,” she said with a smile.

“Why should you doubt it? You do look remarkably pretty today, after all. I do believe that shade of lavender is most becoming.”

“What is this flattery, William?” she said with amusement. “It is most unlike you. Though I thank you for the compliment. That burgundy is a very handsome color on you.”

“Is it?”

“It is indeed. Your eyes glow today with the fire of emeralds. You have quite taken my breath away.”

“As you have mine,” he said, with a slow and lazy smile.

By God. There was some part of himself that felt positively a bystander at such outrageous flirtation. Not since he was a young man of twenty some-odd years had he been so brash. But today he was deriving great pleasure from this game. Perhaps it had been too long since he had indulged in it.

“How very naughty of you, William, to speak so.” Her eyes danced at him. The scent of her desire was unfurling around him like a flower opening, drawing him closer, and suddenly he wanted more than speech.

“Since when is the truth naughty, Emma?” he leaned in closer, whispering the words almost in her ear.

“Since I am a married woman, for a start,” she whispered back scandalized, but pleased. “Whatever has gotten into you today?”

“Perhaps I am more observant than usual,” he reached out, caressed a ringlet of her hair idly.

“For shame!” she hissed, almost giggling. “You should not carry on so with me!”

“I believe you like me this way, Emma,” he whispered, watching her squirm. Her breath was coming fast and shallow. Oh yes. She liked this very much. “Perhaps we should speak so more often?”

“What are you suggesting?” She truly was shocked now.

But he was beyond recrimination. His lips hovered over the creamy perfection of her skin, the sultry scent of her desire intoxicating him. Without realizing what he was doing, he let out a low growl, his tongue darting out from between his lips, licking the base of her throat, tasting her.

“William!” She jumped, her eyes wide with shock.

Dimly, he registered his actions and came back to himself with a snap.

“Whatever is the matter with you?” She whispered. “The Queen awaits you just down that corridor!”

“Emma…I’m—I’m sorry I…”

She took a few moments to collect herself. “Accepted,” she said briskly. “We will not speak of this again.”

“Emma? Emma!”

But her hurried steps fled away down the corridor.

He covered his mouth and turned in a small circle. What the devil had he just done? And dear God, but his manhood! He looked down his body with chagrin. He should never have chosen fawn colored breeches for today! Black maybe, would have been far more discreet, but it was too late now. And he was straining against his placket in a way that was not only uncomfortable and shamefully obvious but also downright alarming.

How was he so devilishly roused? And by _Emma Portman?_ Who yes, had always been pretty but…

He felt his cheeks flame. He would have a lot of explaining to do later. He only hoped that based on their long acquaintance, she could forgive him.

What the devil was the matter with him today! Perhaps he just needed a woman. It had been a long time, after all...

But even so, he could not be having these thoughts now! He was nearly in the Queen’s presence!

He removed himself into a nearby dark alcove, and tried vainly to rearrange himself to make his affliction less obvious. It didn’t help matters any that suddenly and inexplicably, he was hung like a horse.

And he hadn’t even seen _her_ yet.

What on earth would happen when he came before her? Unlike Emma, the queen _did_ rouse him. Mightily too. He absolutely adored the ground she set her dainty feet upon. Oh, God, and he had to bow and kiss her hand!

How was he to manage this audience and leave with any dignity? Could he plead a sudden affliction and leave?

“My Lord Melbourne?”

He whirled with a start to find the dour-faced Penge.

“The Queen has sent me to fetch you, My Lord,” her butler with the tone of a funeral. “She awaits you in her office.”

“Uh…thank you. Yes.” He cleared his throat and tried to gather his scattered wits, and followed the butler dutifully. No there was no escape now. He tried to steady himself as best he could. 

He was announced into the room, and before the butler had finished speaking, plunged himself knee down on the floor before her hand.

He took her soft, delicate hand in his own and nearly groaned aloud.

_Ohhhhhh…Dear God._

He inhaled deeply.

She had a special scent all her own, different than what he had smelled in the hallway. Different than Emma. Light and sweet, with a purity unlike anything he had ever smelled—or even tasted—before, like sweetheart roses and wild strawberries. It lingered in his olfactory, teasing his tongue. He wanted to wrap himself in it and never emerge again. 

He kissed her hand with moistened lips, his own hand trembling as he did so.

“Lord M,” she sighed his name. “Whatever took you so long to come to me?”

He rose to his feet before her, that strange intoxication taking over him again, stronger this time, until he no longer cared if she saw the still-growing evidence of his desire. He found he almost wanted her to.

“Did you miss me—Ma’am?” He smiled. 

She smiled coyly in return and moved away. 

“It is clear _you_ did not miss _me._ You were in no hurry to arrive.”

She was wearing royal purple today, and the color was unspeakably beautiful against her dark hair, her fair skin.

“On the contrary, Ma’am. I have been looking forward to seeing you all day.” He said with uncharacteristically blunt honesty.

“Have you?” she turned to him, eyes bright in the afternoon sun. “Then why did I have to send Mr. Penge to find you? Had you got lost in the corridor?”

She was cross with him. His eyebrows shot up and he endeavored to hide his smile. Damned if she wasn’t cute when she was angry!

“I am sorry Ma’am. I stopped to speak with Lady Portman.”

“With Emma? Whatever about for so long? You’ve been gone for over twenty minutes!”

“Oh, various things, Ma’am,” he said, taking a step towards her, unable to help himself closing the space. The scent of her drew him in, wrapped around him, seducing, beguiling. “Surely you do not begrudge your old Prime Minister a few words with an old friend, now and again?”

“You are _not_ old, Lord M. As I keep reminding you.”

“It does not bother you that I am older than yourself? A generation more akin to your parents than you?”

“I wish you would not speak of your age in such a fashion. You have nothing in common with my parents.”

“Apart from years, you mean.”

“Lord Melbourne! Why are you being so vexatious today?”

“Am I being vexatious Ma’am? If I was, I can assure you that was not my intent.”

She glanced up in his face and he heard—felt—her slight gasp. His eyes fixed on her curvaceous mouth, on the parting of her lips, and without realizing he’d moved again, he found himself very close to her indeed.

There it was. Unmistakable. He detected it immediately--her desire. It changed her scent, made it decadent, sugary and warm--irresistible. And he wanted to feast on it. Drown himself in it. Lap it up like--

“Lord M you…seem different today.”

He watched her pulse flutter at the base of her throat, and his mouth watered—wanting, _needing_ to kiss her. Needing to taste her delicate skin, needing her essence on his tongue…

“Different? How so, Ma’am?”

Her gaze sharpened, seeking to penetrate him, as if she could gaze straight into his soul. He stood patiently, a smile on his lips, holding her eyes steadily, welcoming her in.

“I cannot say for certain,” she pronounced eventually. “But there is…something about you that has changed.” She stepped even closer to him, fearless, her scent enfolding him until he could hardly keep his feet beneath him as she stepped into his space, a hair’s breadth between them.

He bit back a groan.

She moved closer, drawn to him, as if under the same spell, and his vision narrowed to the woman before him, to the whisper of her rapid breathing, the fluttering of her pulse, the heady intoxication of her scent.

Hunger consumed him. But this was his _queen._

“Ma’am,” he whispered, his mouth hovering over hers, his entire body yearning for the touch of her lips. “Perhaps we should abandon this inquiry, and focus on your dispatches for today?”

She blinked, drew in a ragged breath, her breasts heaving beneath the low neckline of her gown, and backed away slowly.

“Yes,” she said at length. “Yes. You are right, Lord M. But you will stay and dine with us this evening, will you not?”

“I would be honored, Ma’am,” he said with a smile.

He cleared his throat as she seated herself at her desk and readied her quill and ink. He didn’t need to glance down at himself to know his manhood was now full and straining hard against his placket, and so obvious there was no hiding it. By some miracle only, her eyes had not once trailed down his body to note it. He thought again of parliament, the revolting reek of his comrades and opponents in an attempt to dispel it. But the memory of such unpleasantness could do nothing to overpower the heady intoxication of her nearness to himself.

“Where shall we begin?” She gazed up at him, batting her sky blue eyes at him.

“With the advancement notices, I believe, Ma’am. There are quite a few of our brave soldiers who are due for promotion…”

* * *

They reviewed box after box of dispatches, and all the while he stood close over her shoulder, drinking in her presence, and the beautiful mystery of her scent. She noticed his unusual proximity and merely smiled, not at all discomfited. And so he permitted himself to stay. At length, he put his hands on either side of the back of her chair. It was some time before he realized his attention had wandered again, straying onto her beautiful, swan like neck, her rich, dark brown tresses, and the graceful lines of her shoulder blades rising above the low, sweeping neck of her gown.

They worked their way through it all, and when it was done, she sighed, and leaned back, and he found his fingers touching the royal purple silk of her gown.

It was irresistible.

He moved his fingers, slowly, ever so slowly, ever so slightly, seeking her skin, his blood thundering in his veins. She sat stock still, a whispered gasp escaping her lips, and for a time it felt as though nothing and no one moved at all, except for the tips of his questing fingers, succeeding at last, and sliding ever so slowly against the silk of her skin.

A sigh escaped her, and he felt her lean into his touch. He bit back another groan as blatantly now, his fingers caressed her softly, and he felt the shiver run through her body.

He was intoxicated by the scent of her desire--stronger now than at any other point during the afternoon. He wanted to whimper, to curl himself in her lap and beg her to pet him like Dash. To feel her hands upon him anywhere—everywhere.

His hands, quite without his permission or knowledge, landed flat and hot against her shoulders, and she moaned, her eyes fluttering closed.

He let out a ragged, incredulous breath.

“You must be tired, Ma’am,” he heard himself whisper, as he kneaded her shoulders, digging in to her soft, perfect flesh.

She groaned again. “Ohhh!” Her head lolled back, her eyes closed, lips parted. "Your hands are like magic, Lord M. And so warm."

A shudder ran through him at her words, as he squeezed into her soft skin again, kneading and rubbing, feeling the tight chords of her muscles loosen beneath his ministrations.

"Does that feel good?" He whispered into her hair, his voice sounding strained to his own ears.

"Yess," she whispered, biting her lip. "So very good."

He did not entirely stifle his own groan. She was so fine-boned and delicate beneath his hands. To feel his skin upon hers so intimately! He could hear his own blood pounding through his veins, hear hers as well. The scent of their mingled desire was heady and thick in the room, making it hard to breathe. Making him not even care if he ever breathed again. Until finally, fearing he would injure her or compromise them both further, his hands stilled, though his fingers, as if unable to follow suit, stroked against her neck in a feather light caress. 

Her eyes fluttered open and she gave him a smile of such sensuality that he almost lost his footing. "Must you stop?"

“I think,” he said in a voice that was strained to his own ears, “that is enough for today.” He swallowed hard and released his hold on her, just as footsteps sounded in the corridor beyond, beating a rapid staccato straight for them.

They had time to separate and briefly compose themselves before the door burst open and Baroness Lehzen strode in.

Hers was a woman’s scent too, but—antiseptic and offensive in a way he could not put words to. It mixed with Victoria’s, diffusing the heady sweetness he had been wrapped in, making him resent her intrusion mightily.

“Majesty,” the Baroness said primly, folding her hands before her. “It is time to get dressed for dinner.” She shot Melbourne a narrowed look, as if divining instantly what they had been up to.

“Of course,” Victoria nodded, wringing her hands. “You will excuse me, Lord M?” Her eyes did not quite meet his.

“Of course, Ma’am,” he said with a bow.

When Lehzen turned and quitted the room, Victoria’s eyes found his—bright and glittering, as she flashed him a conspiratorial smile.

“Until tonight then.” Her eyes flitted down, and he saw the precise moment she saw what he had been battling all day.

Strangely though, he did not feel ashamed as he should have done. He stood proudly, letting her gaze her fill. Her eyes flew back to his, the color high in her cheeks. He gave her a roguish smile.

“Until tonight—Ma’am.”

* * *

Victoria dressed for dinner as quickly as she could, her heart light as the wind. She could still feel his touch upon her body! His great, warm hands upon her shoulders! The heated words he had whispered in her ear! Her heart had beaten so wildly she thought it would escape through her chest. Oh, and she wanted his hands back again! Now that they had been so intimately upon her, it would never do unless he touched her so every day!

When finally she made her way to the dining room, she found Lord M already there, along with Emma, Harriet and Lehzen. She met his eyes once, and they blazed at her from deep inside their forest green depths with such intensity that it made her positively light-headed. They shared a secret smile as she stepped forward to greet him.

“Lord M.”

“Ma’am.”

“I am so glad you could stay till dinner. Will you not accompany me?”

“With pleasure, Ma’am.”

He offered her his arm and she took his elbow lightly. As she did so, she could think of little else but his hands, warm and heavy on her bare shoulders. Such clever hands he had--for so many things, it seemed. She could not wait to feel them again.

He sat at her right hand at dinner, with Harriet on her other side, Emma, Lehzen and Sir Alfred rounding out the intimate gathering.

“It seems to me our party is short one or two rather noteworthy people, Ma’am.” He ventured.

“Indeed we are, Lord M,” she said, her eyes twinkling merrily. “We shall have to resign ourselves to the loss.”

It was Mama and Sir John, of course, that he was referring to. When Sir John had apparently had business that took him away from the palace tonight, her mother had given in to a fit of the hysterics and refused to quit her rooms. Victoria, as always, felt sad for her mother, but could not say with any degree of honesty that she felt the loss of Sir John in any appreciable way, except as one might mourn the loss of a canker sore, or a splinter in one’s finger.

“Yes. I thought your countenance seemed unduly forlorn this evening, Ma’am. And now I see I have divined the cause of it.”

She spluttered with mirth. “Yes indeed. However shall we bear such deprivation?”

It was his turn to chuckle. “The mind boggles, Ma’am.”

One of Victoria’s secret pleasures was feeding her Lord M at the palace. Though she had not a hand in any of the food being served, it still somehow pleased her that she could in some small way repay him for his many kindnesses towards her. Tonight was no different. In fact he attacked his dinner with such relish that inwardly she glowed—it was a small thing perhaps. But she had so few ways she could shower him with affection, and it pleased her deeply to see him enjoying his meal.

She herself ate very little, and through dinner he was so fixated on his plate he spoke hardly at all, so Victoria basked in his nearness and his enjoyment as she chatted with her other friends to afford him enough time to eat his fill.

“You will stay and play at cards?” She asked him later, after dessert and port had been served and he had availed himself again of both more than usual.

“I fear not tonight, Ma’am. I’m afraid I have enjoyed your excellent table far too much, and would only fall asleep should we begin a game. Perhaps tomorrow?”

“Very well. If you are certain I cannot persuade you.”

“No Ma’am. It pains me to leave you early but I fear I must.”

He smiled at her with such sweetness that she could not feel cross. Only disappointed.

“Until tomorrow then.” She held out her hand to him.

He took it gently, more slowly than usual and pressed his lips firmly to her skin with what she could almost call—passion. It sizzled up her arm, creating a tingling glow in her blood that warmed her from the inside out.

“Until tomorrow, Ma’am. I bid you a very good night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The date of the posting of this chapter was no accident. A very happy birthday today to our muse, our darling RS, whose portrayal of Lord M and all his other characters have inspired so many stories and brightened our lives with his amazing, memorable performances.


	3. Night & Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His return to London brought a sense of normalcy and pleasure to Lord M's day and evening. But late at night...

**Ch. 3 – Night And Nightmare**

Lord M came in from the night – rather a misty and cloudy one – not altogether in good temper.

It had been, it is true, a good repast. The luscious capon and crisply roasted potatoes had whetted his appetite to a surprising degree. Indeed he’d had not only large seconds but even had a third helping, happily gnawing on the wing of the juicy bird. And, though not normally a lover of desserts, he’d done justice to an apple tart with frangipane, sending compliments to the chef.

“Since when do you have a sweet tooth, Lord M?” Victoria had asked him in private. “I daresay Francatelli will be pleasantly surprised that you noticed his efforts.”

“Well, it was uncommonly good, Ma’am – perhaps I ought to have noted his efforts before. He was well thought of at Crockford’s Club.”

The Queen had given him her mysterious sweet smile. “I think I rather like you with an appetite.”

Gratified as he was by the compliment, William had to admit his newfound gourmandizing was not settling well. “Coffee!” he demanded of his butler, in a more curt tone than was his wont. “In the library!”

It had been an odd ride home, too. His horses had been uncommonly nervous tonight. When he walked down the steps to the carriage they snorted and bucked, and as he came closer the big gelding, who lead the team, reared up.

“Coachman, what _is _with the horses lately?” he’d asked. “They are getting nigh out of control!”__

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“Perhaps a snake from the grounds might’ve scared them, Sir?”

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“Well, see to it that you keep them in hand!”

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At last, Lord M got in the carriage. The horses seemed a bit quieter, for whatever reason; still, he noted that the pace was uneven, and they whinnied quite a bit more than usual...

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Then there was the unpleasant thought of Conroy. He'd noticed, rather gleefully, that neither Victoire nor Conroy were at supper, adding immeasurably to the lightness and gaiety of the party. Knowing, however, of her mother’s desire to always be present and interfering, he asked Victoria about the absence.

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“Oh,” she said airily, “Mamma did not come down because Conroy was out and about in town tonight. You know she relies on him too much...”

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In the carriage home, he thought he saw Sir John’s unpleasant features. Despite the dark clouds above and the stinking mists from the river (the Thames smelled especially ripe with squalor this evening), the man’s perpetually sour expression was clear as day.

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Indeed, the man himself seemed to smell of corruption and old coins. Lord M instinctively stuck his head out the window, the better to catch the scent. But the horses, which had been uneasy all night, bolted away from the scene, throwing him back into the cushions.

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Still, the two men had spotted each other. Carried away by the restless steeds, and hidden by the walls of the coach, Lord M had felt a distinct snarl coming on, in reaction to this man who had made his Queen’s young life so miserable.

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In his library at last, he stood in front of the window, feeling very agitated. Baines came in with a steaming tray. Lord M frowned at the scent of hot coffee.

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“What do you mean by bringing that acrid brew in here? Where’s my brandy?”

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The butler looked rather taken aback, but answered mildly. “I thought you had asked for it, sir. I can take it away... the brandy should be in the cabinet, as it always is.” He turned toward the door, tray in hand.

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“Leave it!” His man put it down. “Forgive me, Baines. It’s been a late night, and I’d forgotten I’d asked,” he said more gently.

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“Of course, sir. Good night.” After he left, Lord M continued standing, and shifted his weight restlessly from foot to foot. Why was his temper so short of a sudden? He glanced out the window, noting the moon and the stars. The night was clearing – he hoped his mood would, too.

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The scenes of the evening kept crowding on him. He walked about the room, looking at various objects to distract himself. He went to a favorite shelf and picked up his well-worn volume of St. John Chrysostom. But tonight, that sweet-tongued saint with his words of peace and patience could not reach his mind. William clicked his teeth, frustrated, and sloppily tossed the book on the shelf.

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Conroy! What a varlet that man was!

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Lord M took off his boots, stockings, and frockcoat, and unbuttoned his waistcoat. He looked down at his physique... the riding he had done with the Queen these last few months was showing to good effect. He had never had the flabbiness about his stomach that afflicted men of his age, and with the exercise, his muscles were firm as ever – firmer and stronger, in fact. He took off his boots and socks, happy to finally wriggle his toes freely, and enjoying the padding sound of his bare feet on the wood floor.

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Perhaps he could use his muscular stature to intimidate that toady, Sir John. Lord M thought back, seeing in his mind’s eye the marble portico where Sir John was sheltering, and his companion.

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Both the house and companion were both associated with Orange Lodge members of who had caused such trouble in 1836, with their anti-Catholic sentiment - and support for the horrid notion of making the Duke of Cumberland Regent for the then-underage Victoria. Thank the merciful stars that the Queen ascended when she was of age – and that the Lodges had been disbanded!

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By now, Lord M. was pacing to and fro, while the gibbous moon chased away the bulk of the clouds. Thinking about that wretched Conroy, William felt his hair standing on end. An undetected observer would have noticed that the hair of his neck and arms also stood on end; even lengthening, as the observer watched. His stubble, always whiskery this late at night, grew in seconds to cover his face, whilst positive thatches of fur appeared on his hands and the tops of his feet.

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He snapped his jaws viciously, as if he would bite John Conroy. Well, he might, too! - for being traitorously allied with the Orange Lodges, or anything faintly connected with them! And his friendship with the wicked Hanoverian king - when that vile personage was still Duke of Cumberland, looking for a spot of madness or unsuitability in the Queen - was all too well known!

____

As he paced, the clouds departed the moon altogether, so that she could look down upon William. As she shone on him, his pacing was accompanied by odd movements; he paced on all fours, then on two legs, his back hunched and straining at his linen shirt. A sharp-eyed look would have also betrayed a bulkiness, a _protuberance, _in a rather intimate part of the viscount’s breeches. But such glances belong to the darkness, so let them not be dwelt upon!__

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The agitation was like a madness, now. He would defend Victoria, he would guard her more loyally than any Tige or Fido; he would bite and tear at any foe! He scratched restlessly at the sill, marking it with his nails (or rather, his claws - though his enraged glowing eyes looked out at unseen prey, not at his own sudden changes.) A yell escaped him; indeed, a yelp! But Lord M no longer thought in terms of “yell” or “yelp” -- his mind was in a more animal place than that which makes niceties about language.

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The fit was on him! Only half-aware of what happened, the half-beast half-man stuck a paw-like hand through the lower part of the glass, brushed it away, and dashed out upon the back part of Dover House. He ran and whined, fit to bite anything that threatened Her Majesty, that threatened her happiness, that threatened, that threatened...

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A foolish little mouse, harmless to anyone, scurried across his path. He crouched on all fours and snip! snap! He caught it in his jaws! He bit it, not thinkingly, but instinctively, biting on it as a teething babe bites a bit of cloth to ease its pain.

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The sudden crunch and a dark swallow of something in his throat caused him to drop it, and he stood up on his legs, still hunched over with a wolfish back, but with a man’s sense of having done wrong. He slunk back to the house, leapt toward the window, and wriggled through.

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Still in the moonlight, he lay down heavily and stretched his weary limbs. The moonbeams looked upon his exhausted form, disordered in dress, and stretched at full length. But he breathed more calmly, his muscles smoothing out and his fur receding ‘til at last he resembled himself again.

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Then, leaving him to a man’s rest, the clouds again covered the moon, as if closing the curtains on unseemly sights.

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* * *

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Morning came, and found Lord M on his bed, wrapping his beautiful new dressing gown around him like a blanket, wiggling his bare feet that were sticking out from his covering.

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Waking slowly, and half in a dream-state, he nuzzled against the soft lining of the gown, rubbing familiarly against its fur collar.

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Then, shocked into waking, he threw off the gown and leapt off the bed, breathing hard and shielding his eyes from the morning’s glare.

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He stood there, entirely naked, with a waking erection - prodigious, and becoming more so. This new engorgement of late was... bothersome. Dangerous. _Animal. ___

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He shunted those thoughts aside and went to the ewer which Baines always had ready for him. He reached for it and saw scratches on his hand and wrist. He looked in the mirror... his face was haggard; a tiny bit of blood with some hairs stuck in it clung to the corner of his mouth, bringing back the memory of last night’s hunt. He hurled the ewer on the floor and vomited into the basin until he felt empty and weak.

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Wiping his mouth, he caught his breath, and called down to Baines to bring him a new ewer and basin. He crawled to the bed to put on the dressing gown, lest the butler see him naked and in a strange condition.

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He put it on tremblingly. The robe – it had seemed so comforting last evening. At night he craved its warmth and beauty. But in the morning light, it seemed like the shadow of a nightmare.

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	4. Full Moon Fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Horror befalls Lord M as the full effect of his curse takes place. How will this effect his relationship with Victoria?

**Chapter 4—Full Moon Fever**

Gradually, over the coming days and weeks, William Lamb, Second Viscount Lord Melbourne, began the slow and painful realization that something was most definitely wrong with him. Something odd and entirely out of the ordinary.

Something... _supernatural._

Oh, his days were fine--most of the time. The vigor he had awakened with that first morning, though not always present in his first few hours, by late morning certainly had returned. The enhancements to his physique were undiminished—indeed, he looked ten years younger. In fact his countenance had very few lines at all, and his hair was almost entirely dark again. He had an appearance one could even call ageless—indeterminate. Definitely a man of mature years, but not overly so. It was remarkable.

It put a spring in his step, almost what one could call a swagger. And it was so bloody good to be free of stiffness, and the odd pains and rattles that old bones were so often victim to. He could move faster. Even run for longer periods of time without feeling winded. In moments of solitude in the privacy of the grounds at Brocket Hall, he had tested this and found to his exhilaration, he could run flat out for great distances without even feeling taxed.

The heightening of his senses were also undiminished—his sense of smell most of all. But in addition, his hearing had grown keener, and his vision—particularly in darkness—was sharper.

All of these changes were most odd. Never had he ever been acquainted with another soul who had found himself suddenly grown more vigorous. Still, these things alone were pleasant enough. But it was what happened to him at night that was far more terrible.

The first night’s hallucination—or so he had thought it—had been easily enough shaken off. But the second night—that terrible night in Dover House—had been the beginning of the realization that what was happening to him was no dream. The scratches on his wrists, as well as the blood and hairs had born testimony to that. So had the broken window he examined later that morning, and the flurry of prints in the soft mud beneath it.

No. It had not been a nightmare. It had been real. 

As real as it was the next night, when he’d leapt from the same window.

Each successive night, the fit grew worse and worse. Each time, he felt more of himself slipping away. Rationality, morality—humanity itself—diminished. His heightened senses grew. His stomach rumbled and he prowled—restless, aggressive, with a wildness inside of him that clawed at him, seeking release.

It was on the fourth night—the night when the full moon reached its zenith—that the final horror of his situation fell upon him.

_The moon._

He could still see it. Feel it’s pull. It flowed through him like quicksilver—somewhere on the line where pleasure crossed over into pain and back again, it trilled through him—electrifying his blood. Amplifying his lusts, until he’d gone to the window…

And howled.

And that sound—that frightful sound! It had come from within his own throat! A great, wolfish sound of baying, of soul-wrenching sorrow. And somehow it had triggered the fit again. Pleasure-pain rocketed through him until he found himself writhing on the floor in the moonlight, his body bending, breaking open, refashioning itself. And when the feeling subsided he stood, shaking—on four legs.

He tried to cry out, but all that erupted from his throat was a mournful whine. **  
**

Terrified, he made his way to the looking glass on the far side of his room, upending tables and scattering papers and dishes and books--leaving a great trail of destruction in his wake. Until at last there before his eyes was the inescapable nightmare. The answer for all of his unanswerable questions--to all of his worst fears.

_A wolf._

A majestic creature, but a creature entirely, as much of a wolf as anyone would meet in the depth of a forest night anywhere. He stood taller of shoulder than the average example of the breed, with a pelt of chocolate brown shot with silver, and his own green eyes burning out at him from an entirely canine face. Agonized, he tore through the room again, heedless of the destruction, and leapt from the window, racing out through the night.

Oh, how the odors of the city accosted him in this form! The river, the mingled scents of beast and man, food and waste alike--all manner of smells both pleasing and horrifying overwhelmed his senses, his ability to distinguish and process the sudden influx of information. He could smell every soul! The blood in their very veins! 

He let out another howl, and panicked, broke into a four-legged run.

All night, he ran beneath the moon’s bright light. Ran, but could not escape himself, or the terrible fate that had befallen him. Through the cobbled streets of London he ran on and on, heedless, mindless, obeying no directive except his own fear and despair, and the pull of the glowing orb in the sky. Instinctively he made for the darkened places, slinking away from street lamps and from human contact.

Presently he found himself in the seedy underbelly of the capital city—in a district that the Prime Minister of the greatest nation on Earth would never have frequented, lurking in shadows, nosing now and then among the refuse of the city for a tasty morsel to appease the gnawing hunger in his belly. Occasionally he found one, and ate without thought of what it was, or where it came from. But it was not enough to satisfy his hunger. Not ever enough.

Eventually his stomach could take no more torment, and so his nose led him to an open street market, lined with barrows and carts, covered over for the night. In one he found a keg of fish. For a wolf his size, it was an easy enough matter to overturn the thing. Leaping lightly to the barrow in question, he knocked the keg over into the street, breaking it open. Salt and pilchards exploded out across the cobbles in a shimmering, silvery heap that made his canine mouth water.

He had a few moments of nosing through the salt, licking at the mineral and chomping up pilchards until the rats came. Several of these he fought off, and the last one, an enormous, malevolent creature with glowing red eyes would not be cowed, and so in the end, he closed his mighty jaws around it and broke it half in two, tossing it away in disgust. The pilchards were much more to his taste. Having eaten his fill of those, he abandoned the rest to the rodents and made a thorough investigation of the other barrows before quenching his thirst in a rain barrel.

He continued on his way then, knowing not how far or how long he roamed. But as the night waned, so did his strength. Instinctively, he turned and made for home, using the last of his energy to crawl back through the broken window as the horizon began to lighten with the dawn.

The transformation happened almost immediately. And this time, pain overwhelmed pleasure and he moaned as tortuously the curse worked it’s will upon him again--his body twisting, growing, stiffening, breaking apart and reforming again.

By the time Baines had returned, Lord Melbourne again lay in his own body--a shivering, naked wretch upon the floor by the fire. His clothing, as well as his library, lay in a shambles. His faithful butler though, who had been with his family for many years, tutted and clucked and half carried him upstairs and into his bed, where he stoked a healthy fire and left to tidy up the mess without a word.

*** * ***

The Prime Minister did not make an appearance at the House that day, nor did he attend Her Majesty. He made his way instead to Brocket Hall, pleading a sudden illness.

It was the dressing gown. It had to be the dressing gown that had brought this calamity upon him! He was as sure of it as he was his own name.

When he arrived, he attempted to burn the beautiful thing in a ceremonial bonfire in the garden, far removed from the house. However, the moment it hit the flames, a green light had flashed, and the sound of a wolf’s scream, followed by disembodied, wicked laughter rang through the trees around him, and the flames themselves were extinguished--leaving the dressing gown wholly unaffected, so that not even so much as one scorch mark marred it’s shimmering perfection. He retrieved it from the smoldering pile of ash to find it was even cool to the touch.

Whoever had done this thing knew what they were about. Clearly then, he was not to be rid of the curse so easily. Shivering with more than cold but expressly refusing to don the cursed garment again, he carried it back into the house thoughtfully.

Thankfully, once the full moon had passed, his symptoms lessened. Oh, he still maintained his renewed vigor and his heightened senses, but he had not transformed again since that one terrible night, and so some sense of normalcy returned to him. And with it, a sense of outrage.

Who had done this? How had it been accomplished? And most importantly—what could be done to put him right again?

*** * ***

After all that had happened, Melbourne was regretting his decision to host a harvest ball, but unfortunately the invitations had already been sent, and his most special guest was so greatly looking forward to the occasion that he could not bring himself to disappoint her. But how such events would be managed took the pleasure away from his anticipations. After consulting his almanac, he thought perhaps he might dodge the bullet after all. The moon would be on the rise, but maybe not full enough to bring on his affliction. But as his course was set, there was little to do about it, in any case. The harvest supper would go on as planned.

In the weeks that followed his first full transformation, he divided his time, therefore, between Dover House and Brocket Hall. By necessity, he spent the majority of the week in the former, and by choice, his weekends in the latter, though his leave-taking from Victoria on Friday evening was always fraught with emotion.

“But why must you go?” She had asked, her blue eyes wide and deep enough for him to drown in.

“To prepare for your forthcoming entertainments, of course, Ma’am,” he’d said, smiling, though his heart squeezed painfully at the sadness in her eyes.

“But every weekend?” She twisted her hands, a sure sign of her distress.

“It is only for a few days a week, after all,” he’d said gently. “I should be back before you know I have left, Ma’am.”

“No indeed,” she had said to him, her voice low and filled with emotion. “For I feel your loss, Lord M, from the moment you leave me until the second you return. It is like a physical pain that is unbearable. Intolerable. I shall not be content until you have come back to me.”

His heart had melted, and he’d had to swallow the lump in his throat. It was such a perfect echo of his own feelings. Every mile he put between himself and her was an agony. And yet, how could he stay? How could he reach for her now, knowing he was a monster? And despite it all, oh, how his body, his very _soul,_ burned for her night and day!

He’d squeezed her hands, and then hardly thinking about his actions at all, he raised them to his lips and kissed them both reverently.

“I shall miss you too,” he’d confessed quite against his better judgment.

But his admission had had it’s desired result. She smiled, and her cheeks pinked adorably.

“Truly?” she’d whispered.

“Truly—Ma’am. So you know I shall return to you as quickly as I may.”

“Oh Lord M—and shall you assist me with the dispatches?” she whispered.

It had been his own turn to blush. Since that first day after his transformation, he had not been able to keep his hands off her. And so for a few weeks' time now, during their secret, private audiences, he had found his hands upon her person in ever-increasingly intimate ways. Earlier this week, she complained of cold, and so he had rubbed her arms up and down with his hands to warm them before removing his frock coat to place on her dainty shoulders. And today, his lips had found their way to the soft skin beneath her ear.

No. He could not have her. But neither could he keep away.

“You know I am always at your disposal, Ma’am. I shall be only too happy to assist you—in whatever way you require.”

Her smile had broadened and her scent was gloriously aroused--the rose notes deepening as the wild strawberries grew warmer and sweeter. He wanted nothing more than to kiss her darling mouth, to feel her lips part beneath his, to feast himself on the divine taste of her…

“Very well,” she had said softly. “I shall await your return most impatiently.”

He had squeezed her hands again, caressing her skin with his thumbs, still lost in the sugary rich tones of her scent, the contemplation of her lips. Until finally he had raised her hands again to his own mouth, and held her eyes as he kissed them with far more ardor than was strictly permissible.

And here they were now, a fortnight later, with the harvest supper almost upon them. Since he himself had suffered no further onset of his peculiar malady, he had begun to relax again--to allow himself to spend time in town, to stay for cards with his darling Queen instead of being obliged to invent excuses to leave her side.

“There,” he said with satisfaction. “I believe I win that round, Ma’am.”

“Oh fiddlesticks, Lord M!” She said, tossing her hand down on the table in exasperation. “You have won so often I believe I may suspect you are cheating!”

“Me? Cheat? Never, Ma’am!” he said in mock outrage, smiling into her eyes. She was so adorable when she was vexed. “For where there is no challenge, there can be no true victory. Certainly no joy in it.”

“Try not to look as though you are enjoying yourself quite so much at my expense,” she said dryly, watching him gather the cards and shuffle them.

“Shall we play another hand, or are you tired, Ma’am?”

“It must be very late,” she owned.

“Indeed I do believe it is.”

“Shall you go on to Dover House tonight or stay at the Palace?”

“Well,” he said with a dramatic sigh, “To stay at the Palace would necessitate an invitation, Ma’am.”

“No indeed, for you know you are always welcome. The invitation is as open as it is ongoing. That is why I gave you your own apartments, after all.”

“For which I thank you most sincerely, Ma'am. Nevertheless, I think it is probably best if I return to my own house for the night. If for no other reason then to stem the tide of gossip.”

She stood in a stirring of silk skirts. Lord Melbourne held the cards in his hands, mostly to give himself something to hold onto as he watched her begin pacing in an agitated manner. He was becoming accustomed to the way her scent changed subtly with her moods. Now it was crisp with anxiety, but beneath it, oh beneath it, was that softer, warm and heady scent of her desire that he had been startled to realize always began when he entered the room.

It was thicker now, as invariably it was when they were alone—particularly when the likelihood of someone walking in on them was very slight indeed, such as when they were out riding together, or in the deep of the night as they played at cards. As they were at this very moment. It wrapped around him thick as a blanket, beckoning to him now so strongly as his mind filled with desire he never dared voice, let alone act upon. He closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the swish of silk as she moved, felt it slide like a caress against his skin so that he had to stifle a moan.

“I wish you to stay tonight,” she said suddenly.

His eyes flew open, his nostrils flaring. Dear God. Her arousal was so thick he could open his mouth and taste it.

“Ma’am, I--”

“Oh Lord M!” She said his name in a whispered rush, her hands twirling and twisting in her anxiety. “I cannot forget the feeling of your hands on my body.”

He sucked in a ragged breath. Not trusting himself to move or speak, he stayed riveted to his chair for a long moment. Dear God she made him so bloody hard, simply by being herself and being in the same room. He had given up trying to hide it. He did not hide now either as they regarded each other, the silence between them charged. 

“My hands should never have been on your body,” he heard himself whisper finally as he set the cards down, his heart hammering in his chest.

She wet her lips, took a step toward him. Two. Her gaze taking in his arousal as she wet her lips again. 

“Do not say you regret it,” she whispered. “You do not. You cannot.”

His eyes met hers and held them. 

“No. I do not regret.” The admission slipped almost soundlessly from his lips as he sat trembling with emotion. Desire, sharp and fierce, possessive, was pounding through him. Demanded he move. Demanded he take her in his arms and--

“Nor do I,” she replied, and he watched her throat swallow hard, watched the courage rise inside of her eyes at his confirmation. “I cannot,” she stammered. “I dream about it. About you...and I. Together. I dream that you are touching me again and I...I love it. I...feel as if I...I _need_...your hands upon me again. Oh Lord M..." her eyes closed. "I so wish…I never get enough. I wish…oh, I wish…”

“What do you wish?” He could not stop himself asking, _sotto voce_. He sat stock still, barely breathing.

“For you to touch me. For you to hold me close and...” she took a steadying breath, and the pink of her tongue shot out, licking her lips instinctively in invitation."For you to--kiss me."

The atmosphere between them crackled as with lightening, the scent of her desire thick as smoke. He wanted to drink it in. Gorge himself on it. On her…

“Your Majesty…” he croaked, but the protest died there. He found himself on his feet, quite without realizing, closing the distance between them. Her eyes, normally as blue as a cloudless sky, were deep as midnight with desire as he stepped into her space. Her pulse was frantic, her breathing shallow, her perfect breasts heaving beneath the low neckline of her gown. 

For a moment, neither moved. They stood, captured in the moment that seemed to stretch to infinity, to the breaking point. He raised his hands slowly to her face, cupping her cheeks between them, caressing her cheeks softly with his thumbs. Her eyes fluttered closed and she breathed out a sigh that was half moan as her own little hands rose to cover his. With a cry of his own that was half desperation and half surrender, he crushed his lips against hers. Beyond thought, beyond reason, beyond any other mandates but the overwhelming need pulsing back and forth between them.

A whip of lightening lashed through his body at the touch of her lips to his own. Pleasure, white-hot, molten and intoxicating, raced through his veins and throbbed into his groin. It was so exquisite he was robbed of breath, the pleasure as sharp as if she had reached into his breeches and taken him into her very hands.

She cried out, her body tensing in surprise, then melting so beautifully into him as her sweet lips moved awkwardly against his own.

Oh, God, it was her first kiss he was claiming!

A shiver of pleasure, primal and possessive, chased through him as he sank into her kiss, melding his lips over hers, sealing them together. Folding her into his arms, he drew her tight against his body, molding her body to his, willing her to feel what she did to him—the hunger that raged through him, his waning control.

He was shaking in every limb with the desperate need to possess her, to take her and make her his own. Inside himself, deep, locked away, he was aware of his new wolf--awake, cognizant, like a new part of himself. The animal was pacing back and forth within him, enraged at being so trapped, howling in pain and…

Wanting. Yearning. Needing.

_Victoria._

His wolf loved her too. Loved her, and cried out for her, even as he himself did, perhaps even more. The realization amazed him.

She was still in his arms, sighing with contentment. "How long I have dreamed of your arms around me this way," she whispered.

He lay his head atop hers with a moan, and he closed his eyes, giving himself over to the feisty little woman in his arms. His heart squeezed tight, and he willed his pulse to steady itself, willed the beast inside of him to stop baying for more. 

His wolf saw nothing of the obstacles between them--no considerations of rank or propriety, no sense of duty nor age differences mattered at all. It knew only one directive. One hunger. One drive. 

He could stand it no more. He must taste her again.

With a cry of perfect surrender, he raised her lips to his own again, kissing her deeply, giving her his tongue, drinking in her sighs of pleasure as her body pressed tightly against his own. Then he found his lips traveling down her cheek, tasting the silky perfection of her skin over the line of her delicate jaw, licking and nipping his way down to her shoulder, planting tiny kisses at the base of her throat just over her frantic pulse. 

"Oh, Lord M..." His name escaped her lips in a whispered rush as her head fell back, lips parted on a sigh, granting him access to her swan-like neck as her hands wound themselves tightly in his hair, pressing him closer. 

God, how long had he fantasized about kissing her beautiful neck this way! He wanted to cover every part of it with his kisses, taste every inch of her perfect skin. His lips landed on her collarbone. She was so exquisitely tiny. So dainty and yet, so strong. How could such a powerhouse of a woman exist in such a perfect little package?

_More, more, more!_

The mandate of his animal rang in his ears. Her taste was on his lips at last, filling his mouth, lingering on his tongue. Her scent wrapped around him, intoxicating him until he moaned against her, shaking by now with need. 

_No farther. He must go no farther!_

"My Queen," he moaned against her ear, reminding himself of who he was and of who she was. Oh, he had taken things too far. Far too far. For oh, how was he to release her now? How could he ever let her go? And yet he must. 

_He must release her!_

Meeting her eyes again, he placed a gentle kiss on her forehead in dismissal. It took everything he had to let go his hold on her, to step away. But step away he did, gasping for breath as he smiled into her eyes.

"I never knew...that is...I did not realize...that you felt so strongly for me." Her cheeks were pink with pleasure and she licked her lips as if to taste him again.

He sighed, giving her a rueful smile. "I can only offer my apologies, Ma'am. Your charms, I fear, quite overpowered me, and my behavior has been wholly inappropriate. I fear I am...not entirely myself tonight."

"Do not dare offer me apologies, Lord Melbourne!" She said, her eyes flashing blue fire, her expression suddenly thunderous. "I do not wish to hear that you are sorry for what we have done! For I am not--and I never shall be!" She took a deep breath and clasped her hands in front of herself. "Oh my dearest..." she took another steadying breath. "Please. Do not push me away. Can we not be open with each other now?"

He closed his eyes in pain. No. They could not be open with each other. How was he to tell her that he had a wolf inside of himself, and that his wolf was so far gone in lust for her that he had barely been able to contain himself tonight? 

Something of the torture he felt must have shown in his eyes.

“Oh my dearest,” she whispered. “Whatever is the matter? How can I ease you?”

He groaned inwardly.

 _Touch me!_ He wanted to say. _Just one touch of your sweet hands would be enough. More than enough…_

“I fear I am—overcome, Ma’am.” He managed at last. “I must leave you.”

“No!” she whined and taking his lapels in each hand buried her face against his waistcoat, just over his heart.

His eyes squeezed in pain. How sweet, how innocent her love! It cut through his lascivious thoughts and made his poor heart swell with love. He did not immediately dislodge her—he could not bear to. His hands rose lightly on her back and he lay his cheek slowly upon the top of her head. They stayed this way some moments, until both of their breathing calmed, and the frantic beating of their hearts slowed.

“I _must_ go, Ma'am," he said as gently as he could. "I will see you tomorrow, after all. I promise.”

“But everyone will be around us then! I want you to myself, Lord M!”

“There is always the dispatch box, Ma’am,” he said with a smile, teasing. “Perhaps your shoulders will be sore again tomorrow?”

A smile spread across her features at last. “Oh I am sure they will be,” she said, biting her lip and gazing up at him, mischief in her blue eyes. “And shall you rub them for me, in that case, Lord M?”

“It would be my pleasure,” he said, with a grin of his own, bent again and cupped her chin lightly between his thumb and forefinger, and kissed her one more time--a chaste brushing of his lips against hers in farewell. She sighed deeply into him, gazing at him with reverence as, shaking in every limb, he pulled away.

“You promise you will come straight away tomorrow?”

“As soon as it can be managed Ma’am.”

“Manage it soon, Lord M,” she said nuzzling against his nose with her own. “Now that I have tasted you lips, I cannot long live without them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been awhile since the last update! Hopefully the next will come sooner rather than later!


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